I'm Happy Being A Little Bit Peculiar.

Once upon a time, on a farm in a strange land, far away, there lived a little pig who was different from all the other pigs around. He was different from all the other pigs because he was bright green. Like, almost glow -in-the-dark green. The little pig really liked being green. Not that he didn't like the color of the normal pigs, he thought pink was nice too, but what he liked was, he liked being a little bit different, a little bit peculiar. The other pigs around him didn't like him being green, though. They were jealous and they bullied him and made his life a misery.

All this complaining just aggravated the farmers and they thought, "Hmmm, we'd better do something about this." So, one night, as all the pigs lay sleeping out in the open fields, they crept out and snatched up the little green pig and brought him back to the barn and the little pig was squealing and all the other pigs were just laughing at him. And when the farmers got him to the barn, what they did was they opened up this big pot of this very special pink paint and they dunked him in till he was covered from head to foot and not a patch of green was left, and they held him down until he dried. And what was special about this pink paint was it could never be washed off and it could never be painted over. It could never be washed off and and it could never be painted over. And the little green pig said in his little piggy voice - "Oh please, please don't let them make me like the rest. I'm happy being a little bit peculiar." But it was too late, the paint was dry, and the farmers sent him back out into the fields, and all the pink pigs laughed at him as he passed and sad down on his favorite little patch of grass, and he tried to understand why no one has listened to his prayers, but he couldn't understand, and he cried himself to sleep, and even all the thousand tears he cried couldn't help wash off the horrible pink paint, because it could never be washed off and it could never be painted over. And he went to sleep.

But that night, as all the pigs in the fields lay a-sleeping, these strange, strange storm clouds began to gather overhead and it began to rain, slowly at first but getting heavier and heavier and heavier. But this was no ordinary rain, this was a very special green rain, almost as this as paint and not only that, there was something else special about it. It could never be washed off and and it could never be painted over. It could never be washed off and and it could never be painted over. And when the morning came and the rain had stopped all the awoke, they found that every single one of the had turned bright green. Every single one except, of course, the old little green pig, who was now the little pink pig upon whom the strange rain had washed right off because of the unpaintoverable paint the farmers had covered him in earlier. And as he looked at the strange sea of green pigs that around him, most of which were crying like babies, he smiled, and he thanked goodness because he knew that he was still, and always would be, just a little bit peculiar.
                 
             An except from The Pillowman, Martin McDonagh.